5208 ft
by TapesAndRecords
Summary: "He thinks someone knocks on the door as his shirt gets torn from his chest, but his hands are too busy against hot olive skin..." Tony. Ziva. The mile high club.


**note: **Hey guys! Yes, I am working on another chapter for _Conflicted_, and I'm sorry it's taking so long. I'm also sorry I haven't replied to all the lovely reviews I've got as late, just real life and school have currently attacked me.  
But anyways, onto this fic! I… randomly had inspiration yesterday and decided to write it. That's basically the backstory, as well as the conversation between Tony and Ducky in Jetlag. That, and that Sophie told me what to use as the last three words, so I had to write it and do such words justice. Though whether or not I've done that, I don't know. Anyway, I tried to go for humour in this but it just turned out… well, you'll see. And no, I'm not bumping up the rating, I don't think it's really necessary.

**disclaimer: **You know you're obsessed with NCIS when you literally can't breathe after you read some spoilers. (My BABIES.)

**listening to: **Kiss Me, by Ed Sheeran. (It gives me Tiva feels.)

* * *

"Sir? Other people need to use this facility, is there something wrong?"

He pokes his head out of the door, grins, then produces his badge and flashes it to the young woman in front of him. She starts to talk, but he proceeds to explain that no, she need not make an announcement, but the lavatory may be out of use for about a half hour whilst he and his partner see to the problem.

The attendant has only just walked away by the time a finger grips his belt loop and pulls him back into the tiny room.  
It's a minute later that he remembers to lock the door again.

* * *

He thinks someone knocks on the door as his shirt gets torn from his chest, but his hands are too busy against hot olive skin to pay attention to any surroundings other than the woman in front of him whose hands are currently roaming lower and lower on his chest.

Grinning as she presses herself against him and trails a finger farther down, he thinks she's not expecting the sudden removal of her previously hanging-open shirt, as she shivers somewhat in his arms. And yet her bare skin near hisses as he touches it, and the heat radiating from her to him is quite evident.

It only occurs to him that perhaps she's shivering for another reason, and were his mouth not otherwise occupied with her own, he would ask.  
All rational thoughts leave immediately as her fingers clasp round his belt buckle.

* * *

He's happily pressed her up against the wall when the plane hits some turbulence, and though they don't move that much, they still cling to each other that little bit tighter despite their actions.  
He thinks all their clothes are safe, if scattered rather wildly, but after getting hit in the face by a rebounding shirt he is starting to wish there was a little more room in the tiny little cubicle.

Ziva doesn't seem to care, though; in fact she's making content little noises and kissing him almost hungrily, and he's pretty sure that space in airplane toilets is currently the last thing on her mind.

* * *

He can't quite control his ragged breathing, and the fact that Ziva's still gripping his shoulders, and that her heels are still pressing into his back, is doing nothing to help the situation.  
Their skin is slick and warm and sticky, and when she moves one hand to run it through his hair, her palm sticks to his back and peels off almost painfully. He doesn't not notice, though, merely murmurs a remark against her neck and takes another deep, gulping breath.

More turbulence hits, a little more violently than before, and she slides off to land standing on the floor as they both collide with the wall in an amusing but decidedly poor re-enactment of their actions just seconds ago.

She mutters that they should probably get dressed and leave, but she doesn't make to move and neither does he.

* * *

He'd quite like a bed. A nice, comfy bed, where they could both lie down and doze, sated and probably sweaty, and have a shower- perhaps together- after they wake up.  
Instead, he's still locked in a toilet with his half-naked partner, looking for a lost piece of underwear and starting to think the novelty of an idea such as this is starting to wear off now.

"Where did you throw it?"

"I don't know, I just let go of it!"

She huffs and looks in impossibly more spaces than there even _are_ in the room, before eventually finding the missing bra lying behind the toilet seat, a strap wrapped around the flush handle. She sends him an impressed look before shimmying back into the rest of her clothes.

Just as she's about to unlock the door, he grabs her wrist and pulls her to him, planting his lips firmly on hers but kissing her slow and soft and lazy until she relaxes somewhat and kisses him back.

* * *

She smiles at him as she exits, having checked her appearance yet again- despite his insistence that she appeared fine, she still said she looked too flustered- and he smiles back then shuts the lid on the toilet, sighing contentedly and sitting down until a confused teenager walks in and asks if he'll be any longer.

* * *

He smiles as he burrows down into the sheets. The day has been long and lust-filled, and whilst he may now be a member of a club only few dare join, and he's been in the company of his partner all day long, his yearning for a bed has not settled down until this very moment.  
Ziva turns and rests her arm over his waist, and he hears her hum contentedly as he runs his hand down her side.

"G'night, Ziva."

"Goodnight, Tony."

He lifts the sheets up before pulling them higher up over them both, only stopping momentarily to appreciate the view as his eyes rake up and down her body.

* * *

Aand we're done. Sorry it was so... broken-up.


End file.
